


Risk/Reward

by Rileyspork



Category: X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Erik is a Sweetheart, Erik is a grump, Exhaustion, Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt Charles, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Overdoing it in cerebro, Protective Erik, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-24 23:32:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4938157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rileyspork/pseuds/Rileyspork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate title: Cerebro is proof that god loves whumpers. Technically this could be pretty much any 'verse but Charles has hair, so whatever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Risk/Reward

Erik had never exactly been pleased by Cerebro’s existence. It was a staggeringly useful tool, but the fact that his friend was required for it to work was an unpleasant reality. It was dangerous, for something so useful to require a specific person to operate. There was too much incentive for Charles to take on high risks for whatever rewards.

And it was Charles. So of course he did. 

Which was why Erik, searching for his friend in the late evening with a bottle of wine and two glasses, stood outside the door to the hated machine.

Carefully, he put down the bottle, then the two glasses. He braced himself against the metal door with both palms, as he bent down to Charles-face-height. The scanned decided he was allowed in, and the door rolled back. 

Erik could see Charles wasn’t currently using Cerebro. The helmet was not on his head, not on its stand, so probably in Charles’s lap. Erik walked up behind the younger man, gently placing his hands on Charles’ shoulders.

Chestnut hair was disheveled, sweaty. Charles was damp under Erik’s palms, his shirt soaked through. Both of Charles’s hands were on the helmet, Erik could see they were trembling.

Erik rubbed his thumb against the corner of Charles’s jaw, palms still on sweaty shoulders.

Charles exhaled, lifted the helmet to where it sat when Cerebro was not in use.

Erik gripped the back of the wheelchair, pulling it away from the console to make room for maneuvers. Charles’s hands moved to the wheels, turning the chair with an apparently monumental effort.

Now facing him, Erik was able to see precisely how pale the younger man was. Charles did not meet his eyes--didn’t seem to be looking at anything in particular actually. Erik got down on his knees with a grunt, the metal tiles of the walkway flexing slightly as he redistributed his weight.

He gripped his friend’s hands. They were cold, trembling.

“Charles? Look at me?”

Charles’s eyes tracked meanderingly over. He blinked, seemingly struggling to focus and make eye contact.

“I’m going to get Hank--” he started to rise.

Charles’s lips pressed together. Erik stopped, awkwardly crouched with one knee up and the other still under him, “Charles?”

“Please do not,” breathed Charles. His voice, aside from being hardly audible, was hollow.

Erik had had enough. He got up, and pushed Charles out of the dimly lit globe, into the light of the hallway. Charles bent double, shielding his eyes with his hands, “Erik--!”

Erik started to circle around in response to the cry, but danced away as Charles threw up. Erik sighed, stepped around the forming puddle, and rubbed Charles’s sweaty back. 

Charles finally stopped, and Erik steered the chair away from the deposited remains of dinner.

Charles did not sit up until they neared a corner where voices could be heard. Erik took a moment to help Charles right his hair and collar. He wanted to get Charles in bed as soon as possible, but Charles was very much bothered by losses of dignity, especially in front of his students. He would be more cooperative later if Erik stopped to help him now.

Charles opened his eyes, put on a cheery face. He could not disguise the tremble of his lower lip, or the fact that he was absolutely grey from pain.

Erik pushed him through a gaggle of teenagers helpfully absorbed in mischief, and more concerned with hiding evidence of minor destruction than keen observation of their professor.

Passed that hallway, a soft whimper escaped the younger man. Erik knew that sound. He lifted Charles’s arm over his shoulders, lifted the man under back and knees. Charles’s head lolled against Erik’s collarbone, as he fought passing out.

Erik strode quickly to the nearest study, closed and locked the door with his powers, and set Charles on the floor. There was a sofa, but it was too short to lay Charles out comfortably. He did steal one of its cushions, putting it under Charles’s thin legs to bring blood back to his brain.

Charles faded in and out, fighting unnecessarily hard to stay conscious. Erik sat by his head, finger-combed his hair, stroked his cheeks, and gently dashed away the tears that now rolled freely.

Charles sobbed, a little. Erik stroked his forehead.

There was a knock on the door. Erik got up and poked a scowling head out. A scaled student standing beside the vacant wheelchair, “is everything okay?”

Erik nodded, and shut the door.

Charles sat up, or tried to, “who was it…. do they need--”

“It was nobody. They just saw the chair in the hallway.”

Charles stopped trying to sit, flattening out with a shaky sigh. Erik joined him on the floor again.

Charles’s lips quivered, because of course when you’re barely conscious, on the floor, and crying from sheer pain, it still apparently matters that you keep a stiff upper lip.

Erik scowled down at him.

“I hate you so much.”

Charles smiled, struggling to keep his eyes open. Erik glared, and gently picked up Charles’s limp hand. Charles made an effort to squeeze in return. Erik brought his friend’s hand to his face, glowering down as he met the cold, pale skin of each finger with his lips.

Charles closed his eyes. Erik held onto his hand, even after he passed out.

 

 


End file.
